


blessed with beauty (the kind that a rich man can't turn down)

by tiniestawoo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Based on a song, Church Bells by Carrie Underwood, Curses, Domestic Violence, Endgame Stydia, F/M, Magic, Magical Lydia, Painful Death, Wild West ish, old timey, spells, voluntarily infertility
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:46:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23455000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiniestawoo/pseuds/tiniestawoo
Summary: The town of Beacon Hills was a small, bustling country town with a lot of secrets. Townsfolk knew them, knew who to keep away from, knew the secrets, knew the rumors, knew thetruthsabout the town. It was a small, quiet, close-knit community, right up until they struck gold outside of town, and then everyone came, and when the outsiders came, the outsiders forgot one very important fact; Beacon Hills protects its own.Jackson Whittemore had been an outsider. Stiles Stilinski was a beloved son, and Lydia Stilinski a beloved daughter of Beacon Hills. Jackson really brought this on himself.
Relationships: Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Cora Hale/Isaac Lahey, Lydia Martin/Jackson Whittemore, Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 1
Kudos: 105





	blessed with beauty (the kind that a rich man can't turn down)

**Author's Note:**

> THERE IS ONE SCENE OF DV IN THIS FIC. It's relatively minor but it could be triggering. Be warned!!
> 
> \--
> 
> "Church Bells" by Carrie Underwood is 110% responsible for this fic.
> 
> I heard this song on (I shit you not) a Taylor Swift Radio on Spotify and literally as soon as I heard it I was like " I need to make this a fic" and I spent a few days trying to figure out what I wanted to do.
> 
> It was gonna be Stiles/Peter, but I just...can't write that ship like this. If Steter is happening, I cannot see Peter hurting Stiles in any way (at least not, any non consensual way). 
> 
> But Jackson can be (and was) a dick.
> 
> I love Jackson. He's a complex character with a lot of potential. IF you want to love Jackson, go read ' a certain kind of monster '
> 
> this Jackson is a dick.
> 
> ANYWAY ON WITH THE SHOW.

The town of Beacon Hills was a small, bustling country town with a lot of secrets. Townsfolk knew them, knew who to keep away from, knew the secrets, knew the rumors, knew the _truths_ about the town. It was a small, quiet, close-knit community, right up until they struck gold outside of town, and then everyone came, and when the outsiders came, the outsiders forgot one very important fact; Beacon Hills protects its own. 

\--

Lydia Martin was the belle of Beacon Hills, with soft strawberry blond hair that was always plaited demurely, a wide-brimmed hat to keep the California sun off her face, a pair of delicate pink lips usually painted red curled into a polite smile. If you looked at her from a distance, if you kept away from the details, you didn’t see the sharpness in her green eyes. In public, she kept her tone soft and polite, but in private, her tongue was as sharp as a whip. 

Jackson Whittemore never looked that close. A man of his position didn’t need to. Jackson saw what most saw as they came through Beacon Hills; a beautiful young woman from a prominent local family, mild mannered and kind, the perfect kind of woman to make his wife. His father, drawn to northern California by the promise of gold and oil, agreed almost instantly, and arranged for Jackson and Lydia to meet. The Martins were less than thrilled, but left the decision to Lydia, earning a quiet ire from David Whittemore.

Jackson was charming, with sharp cheekbones and a scathing wit. He was confident, broad shouldered, dark hair cropped close and stylish, suit clean and shoes shined. Lydia studied him from across the room, standing in a corner that had just enough shadows to hide her from the rest of the crowd. “I don’t know what to do.” She confessed quietly, turning to the dark-haired beauty beside her, “He’s rich. He’s got a pretty face. That’s all I know about him.”

Allison Argent had been one of Lydia’s best friends since birth. She smoothed down the skirt of her dress and turned her brown-eyed gaze on Lydia, “Lydia, you’re the smartest person I know. This isn’t a decision I can make for you.” 

Lydia sighed, watching Jackson laugh with the crowd of young men he’d gathered around him; Danny Mahealani, Matt Daehler and a few other young men their age. “I think I need to go to church before I decide.” She said softly, only to Allison, who snorted equally quietly. “See if that gives me some insight.” 

Allison looked at Lydia knowingly, “Yes, I’m sure the Baptist church will have plenty of insight for a sweet young Catholic like yourself.” She shook her head, “Go dance with him, see if you can get him to talk about himself, he seems the type to do that.”

Lydia cocked an eyebrow and turned towards Allison, “I didn’t specify the Baptist church.” She said as she walked away. 

Allison held her gaze, “You didn’t have to.” She said, winking.  
\--

As a child, before the spectre of Gold had irrevocably changed the landscape of Beacon Hills, the children of the town had been free to mingle and meet. Lydia had two best friends in the entire world. Allison Argent, sweet, kind and loyal, was the daughter of the horse rancher in town, though the rumours were clear that more than just horses were dealt with on that ranch. The _truth_ that outsiders never heard was that Chris Argent and Talia Hale, the mayor, stood between the town and the monsters who went bump in the night. 

Allison was betrothed to Scott McCall, the son of the town midwife and alchemist, a woman who had risen far beyond her station after her husband had left, and had the respect of the town despite her gender. Scott McCall was the apprentice of the local veterinarian, a shy, quiet young man with shaggy brown hair and a crooked jaw, was loyal to a fault and had a heart of gold. He saw the best in everyone, and it had nearly gotten him killed more times than Allison or Lydia could count. Scott seemed, these days, to be alive by the grace of one man; Stiles.

Stiles Stilinski was the son of the town Sheriff, and the second of Lydia’s best friends in the world. He was loud, brash, rebellious, and sarcastic. He was critical and observant, calculating and vigilant. Until the age of twelve, Stiles had been a well-loved, friendly face through the town, seen often running with Allison and Lydia and Scott, helping wherever he could. But, after his mother died, everything changed.

The Sheriff nearly lost himself in the bottom of a bottle, and Stiles lost his carefree, childish edge. His mother’s death had been a shock to the town, though those in the know were unsurprised. Stiles’ mother was a witch. She was the town’s secret, the town’s final guardian, should Christopher Argent and Talia Hale fail. And she’d been called upon one too many times, and it had cost her her sanity, and eventually, her life. Stiles had been young when her sickness started, but by the time she was gone, the truth was clear to him. He’d changed. 

Lydia loved him anyway. She, Scott and Allison refused to let him pull away completely, refused to lose him completely. He’d rewarded them for their love with a fierce, wholehearted one in return. 

Sunday morning after her parents spoke to her about getting engaged, Lydia found herself dressed in a soft, jade green dress and bonnet, standing outside of the local Baptist church, listening to the ringing of the bells and watching the congregation file in. She stepped in quietly, took a seat in the back pew, folded her hands, and listened to the preacher and the choir fill the morning with promises and music. 

Once the service had ended, she waited, watching the church hall empty. Her patience was rewarded when a young man in a worn white shirt and a pair of grey trousers dropped into the pew next to her. “Get lost on your way to church this morning, Miss Martin? Catholic church is a few blocks over.” 

Lydia’s lips twisted into a smirk, “No, I came where I meant to be.” She turned towards him, taking in the short, closely-shaved hair, and the sparkling brown eyes. “The caretaker at the Catholic church is a lot quieter than you.”

Stiles let out a quiet laugh, “Yes well, you grow up in a family with Laura and Cora Hale and expect to get a word in edgewise.” He took her in, “What has you all the way down here on the Lord’s day.” 

Lydia chewed on her lip, “My parents want me to marry Jackson Whittemore.” She said simply. 

Stiles’ eyebrows furrowed, “Doesn’t Whittemore senior own the land they’re planning to mine on?” Lydia nodded. “You’d be a rich woman.” He said, giving her a half-smile.

“He’s arrogant. Loud. He thinks he’s witty. He seems nice but he feels wrong, Stiles. I can’t explain it, he just feels wrong.” 

Stiles nodded quietly. He was the only one that had ever believed her when she explained that sometimes she got these gut-deep feelings. He’d never called her crazy. Lydia hated that he was quiet. When they had been children, Stiles had chattered the day away, filling the days with wild theories and bright stories. Lydia missed that side of Stiles dearly. “You always know where to find me if you need me.” He said simply. 

Lydia sighed, tears welling in her eyes, “I’m sorry, Stiles.” 

Stiles reached up with a calloused hand, cupping her cheek and brushing away the tear, “Don’t apologize for things you didn’t do, Lydia.” He leaned in close, their foreheads brushing, “Go get your pretty husband and your big house and all the diamonds you could ever want.” He kissed her cheek tenderly, “I’ll be here. Tending to this house of someone’s God.” 

The truth was, and always had been, that if Lydia had her choice, she’d have married Stiles. She’d have moved into the small house in the middle of town that he shared with his father without complaint, and spent her days happily as Lydia Stilinski. But her father had forbade it years ago, as soon as she and Stiles had been old enough to really even start thinking it, he’d told her to stay away from that boy, had spread those rumours about Stiles’ mother one step further, blackening his name, making it near-impossible for him to find work. That was how the whip-smart son of the Sheriff ended up tending to the gardens and the church hall of the Baptist congregation, instead of studying to be a teacher or a banker or a lawman like his father. 

Lydia’s father had done that, and Lydia had never forgiven him for it. She’d also never forgiven herself for sitting quiet as it had happened. And even on this Sunday, as Lydia walked away from Stiles for the hundredth time, she felt her heart break again. 

\--

Three weeks later, Lydia was Mrs. Lydia Whittemore. 

\--

The marriage, at first, seemed like a match made by God himself. They’d been married on a beautiful August day in the town’s catholic church. Lydia had promised to honor and obey him. She’d moved into the Whittemore’s mansion on the outskirts of town. All of her dresses were suddenly replaced with those of fine linen and delicate silk and hand spun lace. Her neck and wrists were adorned with diamonds and gold, elegant and regal. Her left hand felt impossibly heavy beneath the diamond of her wedding band. 

Three months after the wedding, Lydia still wasn’t pregnant. Jackson was a demanding lover in the bedroom, spoke often about children and his father’s good name. Lydia had little experience, and what experience she did have, her father would be scandalized to know about. Jackson took Lydia to bed most nights, and she let him without complaint, holding fast to her memories. She let him and she kept it a secret that every morning, the tea she brewed was the one that Stiles had handed her the Sunday morning after her wedding. He’d joined her in the back pew after the Baptist services ended and handed her a small metal tin and a note of instructions with a soft smile and a wink. He’d handed her another tin every Sunday since. He told her he would continue to until she didn’t have a bad feeling anymore. She didn’t question it, but she wasn’t stupid. 

In public, Jackson treated her like a queen. He hosted roaring dinner parties and let her invite Allison and Scott even though they were of lower status. He paraded her around town on his arm, spoke highly of her whenever she was in earshot. When they were alone, their conversations were shorter, less affectionate, but he allowed her to have her own space to read and write her thoughts and didn’t say anything when she left the house every Sunday morning to go to church. He wasn’t a god-fearing man, so he didn’t even notice which church it was his wife attended. 

Scott and Allison got married in December, and for a few hours just before their ceremony, the skies had unexpectedly opened up for a light dusting of snow despite the temperature being far too high. Lydia and Allison had shared a knowing glance, and their suspicions were rewarded by Stiles’ pleased blush when Allison exclaimed how beautiful the snow had made the venue, an outdoor garden on her father’s land. After their wedding, Stiles had pressed a tin into Allison’s hand with a kiss on her cheek and a whisper into her ear. 

Two months later, Scott and Allison were delighted to announce their pregnancy. Jackson was irate, but Lydia’s visits to Mrs. McCall proved her well and truly fertile, and ready for his child, and Melissa was firm that Lydia was doing nothing she could detect to prevent the pregnancy. When she asked Stiles if she should stop with the tea, he asked her again how she felt about Jackson, and she again said he felt wrong. She kept drinking the tea.

\--

Stiles didn’t go out often, unwilling to face the whispers and the rumors, unwilling to make his father’s life harder than he already had by the sheer virtue of being born. But, this night, he had agreed to go out to the local tavern, dragged along by Scott and Isaac, celebrating Isaac’s engagement to Cora Hale and Scott and Allison’s pregnancy. Stiles sat quietly at the table and listened to Scott recount the horrors of planning a wedding to Isaac, and nursed his beer. 

The first thing Stiles noticed about Jackson Whittemore was his cologne. It was overpowering as he shouldered his way between Scott and Isaac with a cocky smile. “I hear congratulations are in order. Marrying well, aren’t you, Lahey?” 

Isaac blushed, and Stiles wished he could have warned him that the compliment was insincere. Suddenly, all the times that Lydia had told Stiles that Jackson felt wrong were crystal clear to him. “Cora and I are in love. Her parents don’t believe in status.” 

“Well that’s certainly a good thing, or they’d be really distressed to see you spending time with the town witch.” 

“Hey—” Scott started, but he was cut off.

“Son of.” Stiles said, looking up at Jackson, “My mother was the town witch. Allegedly.”

“Allegedly.” Jackson repeated back with a sloppy attempt at a sneer, “Lots of allegations go around in this town. Is it true you know my wife?”

Stiles carefully controlled his facial expression, “My father’s the Sheriff. I know everyone in town.” 

Jackson rolled his eyes, “I hear she spends time with your mother.” He turned to Scott. “She told me Lydia was ripe for a baby. You’re a lucky man, McCall, pregnant on your wedding night, I hear.” 

If Stiles was not the son of the town Sheriff, he would have lit Jackson Whittemore on fire right there. He would have snapped his fingers and watched him burn for the way he _dared_ to speak about Lydia like she was an object, like her purpose was to give Jackson an heir. Stiles was his mother’s son, after all. He also, however, was his father’s son, and it was that familial tie that had him rooting into the stool he sat on, taking a long drag of the beer. “Whittemore, what do you want?”

“I wanted to meet you, Stilinski. The town recluse. McCall always speaks highly of you, Lahey too, when he gets a word in.” Jackson wobbled slightly as he held up both his hands in a dismissive gesture, clearly drunk. “I wanted to meet the town recluse.”

“Well you have.” Scott said firmly, with a sharp-edged smile, “We were just finishing our beers and heading out anyway. I hate to be away from Allison too long.” Scott gave Stiles a hard look, and he and Isaac stood, settling their bar tab and walking from the bar. 

“He’s an ass.” Isaac said, his hands tucked into his pockets as the three walked towards Scott and Allison’s house.

“He’s an outsider.” Stiles said, with a one-shouldered shrug. “He doesn’t know better.” 

“It seemed like he did.” Scott said, nudging Stiles, “Are you and Lydia seeing each other?” 

Stiles turned to Scott with a hard look, “I would NEVER do that to Lydia. My reputation is in shambles, Scott. I have done everything I can to protect Lydia from the fallout of that.” 

Scott sighed, stopping, “You should have been the one to marry her, Stiles.” 

“Yeah, well I wasn’t.” Stiles said, turning to face him, “And there’s nothing to be done about that. She’s married, she’s got money, she’s safe.” 

“Is she?” Isaac asked. 

Stiles turned to him slowly. “Isaac?” 

Isaac kicked at the dirt, “I don’t have proof. I just know Jackson’s a mean drunk. He was on his best behavior tonight. I know Lydia can be a little feisty. If she said the wrong thing to him…”

Stiles drew in a long breath, eyes glinting darkly in the moonlight, “If he touches her, he’s dead.” 

Neither Scott nor Isaac commented. Neither of them doubted. Stiles didn’t make idle threats. 

When Stiles left Scott’s that evening, he detoured deep into the woods, and said his prayers to the only force of the universe he believed in. He knelt at the foot of the Nemeton, cut his palms and watched the blood drip into the earth and called on the spirits of the dead and the magic of the living to protect the most precious person in Stiles’ universe, to keep her safe, keep her alive. 

He’d long ago mourned the fact that he’d never be the man in Lydia’s bed, he’d never treat her with kindness and compassion and worship her like the goddess among people she was. He’d never buy her books and weave spells around her to keep her safe and healthy. Stiles knew how to protect her from the realities of the world outside Beacon Hills. The world he, secretly, and his father, and Talia and Chris protected the town from.

But he didn’t know how to protect her from the devil in her own bed, from that overpowering cologne and that condescending attitude. He didn’t know how to save Lydia from that fate.

Or well, he did. There were a lot of ways a man could die and no one would ever know.

But he respected Lydia enough not to, not until she asked. 

\-- 

Lydia was still awake when Jackson got home from the bar that night, reading and making notes in a small book that she quickly slid away into a locked drawer. Her ‘bad feeling’ grew sharp, and she felt her blood run cold as she stood from her desk and tried to get into bed before he arrived in the bedroom. She had one hand on the corner of their four-poster when he opened the door, eyes roving over her form. “Met a friend of yours tonight.” He slurred.

Lydia swallowed, “Oh?” She said, trying to paint a polite smile on her face, “Who is that?” 

Jackson walked towards her, shedding his shirt, “The witch’s boy.” He grabbed at her dressing gown, pulled her body against his. “Steve? Stan?”

“Stiles.” Lydia said, and as soon as she said it, she wished she’d held her tongue. 

“So you do know him.” Jackson said, his eyes darkening, “Has he got all that voodoo bullshit in your head? Does he cast spells on you? Is that why you’re not pregnant?” Jackson’s hands ran down her body, ghosted over the curve of her ass. 

“Magic isn’t real.” Lydia said with a sweet smile, bringing her hand up to cup Jackson’s cheek and press a soft kiss to his lips. “Besides, Melissa says that there’s no reason for us not to be, that it’s God’s decision not to give us a baby.”

Jackson’s hand came down hard against Lydia’s cheek, and she jolted from the force, “If it’s God’s doing, I guess you’d better start spending a hell of a lot more time on your knees, praying that God changes his mind.” Jackson pushed hard on Lydia’s shoulders, overpowering her. “And other things.” His smile had a cruel glint.

Lydia choked back a sob and he rolled his eyes and slapped her again, “Jackson, I’m sorry.” She babbled, still not entirely sure what she’d done wrong.

Jackson didn’t say anything else that night. 

Lydia fell asleep aching. 

\--  
As the roosters cawed the next morning, Lydia dragged her sore body out of the bed she shared with Jackson, and walked to the mirror in the bathroom, muffling her sob into her fist as she looked at her reflection. A black eye bloomed and her cheek had a line of bruises. Her lips were swollen and bruised, and the dressing gown that slipped off of her shoulder revealed a hand-shaped bruise on her shoulder. Lydia washed her face, dressed, covered the bruises as much as she could before she hurried downstairs, heating water and making Stiles’ tea.

She was thankful to not have to walk further by the time she made it to Beacon Hills First Baptist Church, biting back a groan as she sat down hard in the pew at the back of the church, looking around furitively to make sure no one was watching her too closely. She sat back against the pew for a moment before leaning forward, folding her hands, closing her eyes, and praying. 

After the services, Stiles found her, studying her for too-long before he sat down. “Lydia, look at me.” 

She couldn’t, tears burning in her eyes. “I had a bad feeling.” She whispered, “A really bad feeling.” She rocked slightly in the pew.

Stiles let out a long breath through his nose, bringing a hand gently to her face, leaning close and whispering something in what Lydia was sure was Latin. Her chest felt warm for a moment, and she drew in a full breath for the first time that day, the ache in her ribs, along her hips, and between her legs fading away. “If I fix too much, he’ll get suspicious.” Stiles murmured, still close. 

Lydia didn’t pull away, her chest shaking with the force of quieting her sobs. “I don’t know what to do.” She breathed. “How could I be so stupid; how could I marry a monster like this?” 

Stiles glanced briefly around the church, pulling Lydia gently against his chest and pressing his lips to her hair, “I’ve seen a lot of monsters.” She believed him, “But the worst I’ve met are human.” He stroked her back as she cried, “I know how to kill a lot of monsters. The most important question I need to ask, Mrs. Whittemore, is fast or slow?” 

Lydia rested against Stiles for a long moment – too long, depending on who was looking – and let Stiles’ words, the underlying, undercurrent of a promise ringing through to her ears. She drew in a long breath, felt confidence she hadn’t felt in months settle into her skin, reached up to dab at the leftover tears in her eyes, and her green gaze met Stiles’ as she spoke, in a sure voice, “Slow.” 

\--

Stiles had taken Lydia back to his house after services. They’d moved quickly, using the shadows and the secret passageways that the town of Beacon Hills hid from its outsiders. His father was out on patrol, the house was empty. The first thing he’d done when the door was closed was kiss her, leaning back against the door, letting her take control, letting her unlace her own dress and unzip his trousers. He’d laid on the bed and ran calloused, gentle hands across the parts of her body that Jackson ignored, let her lower herself down over his face, licking and sucking at her until she was quivering above him. He’d pressed gentle fingers inside of her and stretched her like she was a virgin, like she was pure and perfect because, to him, she was.

Lydia had ridden him to her third orgasm, her quaking around him brining about Stiles’ own release. Lydia didn’t pull away, kept him firmly sheathed inside her. She wouldn’t drink the tea tomorrow morning either. She didn’t care anymore, and she told Stiles as much as she leaned down to kiss him, her sweaty body resting against his broad chest. Stiles had given her a wide, tender smile and kissed her again.

She’d listened to her father once, married a monster of a man who wanted her for nothing more than her body and her looks, for nothing more than her uterus and ability to carry children. She was done caring, done listening to her father. Jackson was going to die, that wasn’t a question, it was a matter of when.

And, as the two of them lay together beneath the sheets even as the sun began to set, Stiles having found a warm cloth to wipe them both clean, they planned their future. 

\--

The Sheriff came home at some point in the evening, knocking on Stiles’ door. “Stiles, have you seen Lydia? Her Husband is distraught. I guess they had an argument last night and she’s disappeared.”

Stiles glanced at Lydia and winked, “Hey dad.” He called out through the closed door, “Remember that talk we had about plausible deniability.” 

“Yes.” The Sheriff grumbled. 

“Good, keep remembering it.” Stiles said, his brown eyes sparkling as they drank in Lydia’s green gaze, “I’d ask Derek Hale if he saw her at Mass, other than that, I have no idea.” 

The Sheriff was silent for a long moment. “Lydia, did Whittemore hurt you?” 

Lydia looked at Stiles, who shrugged, and she looked at the door for a long moment, “Only once.” She said, just loud enough for it to carry through the door. 

Another long pause, “Once too many.” The sound of the Sheriff’s footsteps away from the door was all the answer either of them needed. 

Lydia rolled closer, burying her face in Stiles’ chest, “I should go home before they actually start a witch hunt.” 

Stiles nodded, pressing a kiss to her forehead, winking, “Wouldn’t want them to find the town witch, would we?”

They dressed and Stiles helped Lydia through the tunnels to Scott and Allison’s house, the two looking entirely unsurprised to see the pair of them. Allison and Lydia went upstairs so Lydia could re-cover the bruises that tears and sex had revealed, and Scott and Stiles spoke in hushed voices in the kitchen about what was to come next. 

Lydia went home to Jackson an hour later, explaining a concocted excuse of helping Allison with a project after Mass. 

Derek Hale, the caretaker of the Catholic church, confirmed with the Sheriff that he had, in fact, seen Lydia for mass this Sunday, like he did every Sunday. 

When the spell that Stiles intended to use called for the blood of someone who was ‘other’, it was Derek’s blood that powered the spell, his eyes burning blue in the moonlight as he bled into the bowl Stiles held. The two embraced before Stiles left, Derek murmuring his thanks to Stiles for continuing the legacy his mother had left, and protecting Beacon Hills. 

Stiles didn’t bother to clarify the selfish nature of the spell he was about to cast. 

\--

Three weeks later, Jackson Whittemore was a very sick man. He was pale and clammy, too weak to rise from his bed, too weak to bed his wife, a shell of a once-revered man. It was labeled as a tragedy, David Whittemore calling in Doctor Dunbar, Melissa McCall, even Alan Deaton, the vet, anyone who seemed to have the smallest amount of medical knowledge. None of them seemed to be able to find a cause for the illness that was killing Jackson slowly. 

In hushed whispers, one night, someone suggested he speak to the Stilinski boy, the son of the witch. David had been inflamed at the very suggestion, but as another week passed and Jackson slipped further away, he finally appeared at the Stilinski’s door. 

Stiles was quiet as he walked into Jackson’s bedroom, his hands folded together at his waist. David Whittemore followed him in, but Stiles leaned close to him and suggested he walk away, that it would be better if he didn’t know what was happening. Better to not know the details if the healing worked.

(the healing would not work)

When David was out of the room, Stiles sat on the edge of the younger Whittemore’s bed and stared, his lips curving into a smug smile. “What?” Jackson spat with as much venom as he could muster, “Are you going to fix me or not?”  
“Oh, I can’t fix you.” Stiles said, “I just wanted to observe my handiwork.” 

Jackson’s eyes flew wide, “You. You did this to me. You’re a witch.” 

“I am a witch, but you did this to yourself.” Stiles said with a cold sincerity, “As soon as you hurt Lydia, you did this to yourself.” 

“How do—She told you?” 

Stiles leaned back against one of the posts of the bed, “Mm, she did.” He smirked. “Lydia’s pregnant by the way.” He said, nonchalantly. “It’s a bit early to be sure, but Melissa said it’s likely.” 

Jackson’s face fell, “Please, Stilinski, just heal me, I’ll never touch her again, not like that, not in anger.” 

Stiles shook his head, “Ah, see, I can’t heal you. The spell is irreversible. And in fact, it’s due to expire very, very soon, and you’ll die an excruciating death. In about….” Stiles paused, “Now, you’ll lose the ability to speak, and soon, all of your senses will follow, except touch. Then the pain will start, Jackson. And just before you die, you’ll be given a moment’s respite to remember all of that pain, and remember that it was your hands on Lydia’s skin that did this to you.” 

Stiles climbed to his feet even as Jackson screamed wordlessly at him, “The baby’s not yours, by the way.” He winked and departed, explaining the new symptoms to David Whittemore, and apologizing that there wasn’t more that he could do.

Two days later, Jackson Whittemore was dead.

\--

Lydia Whittemore and her unborn child inherited all of Jackson’s wealth, his big house outside of town, and the land that a gold mine was meant to be built on. David Whittemore signed it all over to her, and left town, distraught at the loss of his only son, but promising to keep in contact with Lydia and the baby. It was a promise nobody expected him to keep. 

Lydia and Stiles married in May, in a quiet courthouse ceremony, and Stiles moved into the big house with her, with promises that would be kept to visit the Sheriff and bring the baby over once they were born. Lydia studied medicine and alchemy with Melissa as long as the woman said it was safe for the baby. The Martin’s formally apologized for their accusations against their now Son-in-Law, and Stiles quietly became an assistant to Talia Hale, becoming, in time, her most trusted advisor. 

Scott and Allison’s child was born in September, a healthy baby girl with brown eyes and dark curls. Little Victoria was the talk of the town right up until early November when Lydia gave birth to a little boy who was a perfect blend of Lydia and Stiles, Jackson’s features incredibly, suspiciously absent. The town was silent when they announced that the little boy was going to be given the name Stilinski. The town was also silent when his full name was announced. 

Jackson Whittemore had been an outsider. Stiles Stilinski was a beloved son, and Lydia Stilinski a beloved daughter of Beacon Hills. Beacon Hills protected its own.

And that included little red-haired, whiskey-brown eyed Noah Stilinski II.

And because neither of them actually cared much about religion, Stiles and Lydia had him baptized in that Baptist church where Lydia’s prayers had finally been answered.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm venturing (slowly) back onto Tumblr. I'm not comfortable posting on my main blog about this stuff, but you can come talk to me at
> 
> those-who-fall.tumblr.com!


End file.
